


Ask Nicely

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: Best Friends and Better Lovers [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Modern AU, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, mild Dom/sub themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eponine’s eyes are closed and her lipstick smeared completely--Cosette doesn’t even bother to wipe her own mouth because she likes the taste of Eponine’s cherry-flavored lipstick almost as much as she likes the taste of Eponine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Nicely

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically the only smut I've ever written, so feedback of all kinds is loved!

When Eponine is sad, Cosette gets jealous. Which may not make much sense at first, but Cosette knows that only two people in the world are capable of making her Eponine sad: herself, and _fucking_ Marius. And Cosette is fairly sure she hasn’t done anything to make Eponine sad today--she rarely does, in general. Cosette likes to think she’s a ray of sunshine in her girlfriend’s life, as cliche as that is. She fills their apartment with flowers and smiles and never watches anything too depressing on television, and she sings Disney songs to herself when she cooks them dinner (and only sings the villains’ songs when she’s had too much tea).

And she teaches Eponine how to be happy, because Cosette remembers what perpetual despair is like, and her dear Eponine, kind and strong, deserves better than that.

Except today Eponine is not happy. She gets off early from her shift at the shitty restaurant that her even shittier parents own, drops her purse on the floor, and immediately begins to strip. This is normal--first thing Eponine does when getting home from almost anywhere is to take off her bra and slip into sweatpants, and Cosette’s even started leaving sweatpants right by the front door, just so they’re within quick and easy reach for her. 

Cosette watches her from the kitchen. She’s in front of the stove, idly stirring a pot of  soup, and holding a copy of _Orlando_ in her other hand. She leaves her thumb pressed between the pages to save her place, and a few seconds later, abandons it altogether on the countertop. She can tell there’s something wrong from the start when Eponine doesn’t begin her usual tirade of loud ranting about every single asinine customer she had to deal with that day. Instead she curls into the couch cushions and buries her head in her arms. Cosette can at least tell that she isn’t crying, but with Eponine that’s not necessarily a good sign--she rarely ever cries at anything.

“I’m fine,” Eponine says, her voice muffled by a lace-covered throw pillow, when she feels Cosette sit down beside her. 

Cosette, of course, ignores her entirely, and combs her fingers through her girlfriend’s hair. She slides the elastic band out of her dark ponytail and wraps it around her own wrist. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me you’re fine, because I can tell you’re not.” She tries to keep her voice light, although she already suspects she knows what this is all about.

Eponine turns over, slightly, so that they’re facing each other. There’s a tiny smudge of red lipstick on the corner of her mouth that Cosette remembers she was responsible for that morning, and seeing it’s still there eases her heart, a little. “Marius showed up to talk to me today.”

“Fucking knew it,” Cosette growls, and rolls her eyes. Cosette dated him, once upon a time, while Eponine mooned after him, until each of them moved on to better things (aka, one another.) Neither of them _hated_ Marius, exactly, just recognized what a blithering idiot he could be when he wanted to, and decided that he wasn’t the right one for either of them. But old habits die hard, and Eponine had been besotted with Marius for years, and simply _close_ to him for even longer. They maintained a shaky friendship and Marius made it a point to run into her on occasion, primarily to ask after Cosette ( _How is she, how is her father, are you two getting on, oh, you’re still together then?_ _Bye, ‘Ponine._ )

Fucking Marius, the blithering idiot.

Even though Cosette is ninety-nine percent certain that she has completely supplanted him in Eponine’s heart, she resents his uncanny ability to make Eponine upset, because, well, _it makes Eponine upset_ , which Cosette doesn’t like at all, for obvious reasons. But also because Marius still has that ability at all, when Eponine is supposed to love _her_ , and not Marius. Not anymore.

Cosette knows she’s being silly and a tad unfair, and that Marius is simply one of those old wounds that hasn’t fully healed yet.

Luckily, she knows the perfect way to make both herself and Eponine feel _a lot_ better.

She leans down, kisses Eponine long and slow, until Eponine’s finally kissing her back, and swiping her tongue across Cosette’s full lower lip. Cosette feels goosebumps rise along her arms, but forces herself to pull away. Eponine’s eyes are closed and her lipstick smeared completely--Cosette doesn’t even bother to wipe her own mouth because she likes the taste of Eponine’s cherry-flavored lipstick almost as much as she likes the taste of Eponine.

Eponine’s eyes flutter open, and a low whine builds in the back of her throat as she reaches for Cosette, to bring their mouths crashing back together. But Cosette darts to her feet and tugs at Eponine’s arms. 

“Bed,” she says, and smirks wickedly. It’s hardly the sexiest seduction tactic in the world, and probably the least subtle, but neither of them lack enthusiasm. Eponine stumbles upright and brushes her fingernails across Cosette’s shoulder blades on their way there. She knows what Cosette likes best.

Their bedroom is mostly pink and lavender, because Eponine left Cosette in charge of the decorating. She pretends to hate it, most days, but right now she can’t be bothered. Cosette’s sliding her hands into the hem of her t-shirt, soft against her bare skin as they move up and up and _up_ , and Eponine raises her arms obediently so that Cosette can drop the shirt to the floor. _This_ is another reason why Eponine doesn’t bother with a bra when she’s going to be sitting around at home with her girlfriend--she knows what Cosette likes best, and feels a small spurt of satisfaction because she swears Cosette’s eyes have glazed over for at least a moment or two.

The moment is over quickly, though, as Cosette pushes her gently to the bed and joins her there.

Now Cosette allows their lips to clash so hard that their teeth scrape together, and her tongue traces the roof of Eponine’s mouth while her fingertips circle in slow patterns across her ribcage and up to her breast. Eponine moans into her mouth and her hands hold on _tight_ to Cosette’s jean-clad ass. Cosette feels invincible.

She likes to take things slow, but Eponine is always in a hurry--she kicks off her sweatpants before Cosette gets a chance to take them off for her. Eponine arches up, tries to grind herself against Cosette’s hip, but Cosette pulls up and away before she gets the chance. She’s still fully clothed, and she straddles the almost obscene splay of Eponine’s thighs. 

At their juncture, a flimsy bit of black fabric that Cosette is pretty sure belongs to her. She trails her finger along the familiar lace of the waistband, and Eponine raises her hips off the bed and bites back another moan.

That wicked grin again, and Eponine knows she’s in trouble.

Cosette’s eyes narrow, and she pins Eponine down by her wrists at her sides, digging them hard into the mattress. 

“If you want something, you have to ask for it,” Cosette purrs, and lowers her head to suck delicately at the hollow of Eponine’s collarbone. Eponine’s breathing grows heavy, and Cosette lowers her head further, to brush her lips and then her tongue against her nipple, and Eponine squirms beneath her and tries to arch into her touch. She _hates_ begging, or at least for her role in this little game, she does, and a strained groan escapes from the back of her throat. That’s when Cosette begins to use her teeth to nibble and bite, and Eponine actually _squeals_. Her arms struggle against Cosette’s hold on them, fighting to get free so she can tangle her hands in her lover’s blonde hair and hold her there forever--she could come just from this, she’s done it before--but Cosette isn’t letting go.

“Please,” Eponine finally gasps.

“Please what?” Cosette asks, a murmur against Eponine’s other breast. She watches as her mouth just opens and closes again--she can’t find the words. “What do you _want_?” As if to provoke a response, Cosette releases her wrists and slides down the length of Eponine’s body. She scrapes her nails down Eponine’s bare thighs, and when Eponine makes a sound of pleasure, she does it again, _harder_.

Cosette feels hot and damp underneath the weight of her clothes, and Eponine had better get to begging soon.

“I think you know what you want, don’t you? You little _slut._ ”

Eponine’s breath catches in her throat and her eyes fly open. She clings to the bedspread, knuckles white.

Cosette laughs, and her breath ghosts against where Eponine wants her most. She hooks her index fingers into Eponine’s panties and slides them off of her legs onto the floor. “You like being a slut? Tell me what a whore you are.”

(When Eponine had first asked Cosette to talk to her like this, Cosette had blushed and stuttered but somehow it still worked, anyway. After a few months of practice, she’s gotten even better.)

“I’m a slut,” Eponine whimpers. As she says the words she tries to buck her hips, to reach the glorious friction of Cosette’s face or mouth or tongue. But Cosette holds her down, thumbs pressing not-quite-bruises into Eponine’s hipbones. “Please--please touch me.”

Cosette’s kisses begin at Eponine’s knees and move upwards, with an occasional pause here and there for those special spots that make Eponine’s eyes darken further with desire. Behind her knees, and along the insides of her thighs. She leaves small, red marks that will last until at least tomorrow.

Her fingertips tease Eponine, sliding across the slippery wetness there but not _in_ \--it never fails to surprise Cosette just how _wet_ she can make Eponine, and always with a slight burst of pride. She flicks her thumb against her girlfriend’s clit, and Eponine _finally_ cries out and her legs (which have made their way atop Cosette’s shoulders, bearing her down against her) begin to tremble, and the sound of Eponine’s orgasm is like fucking _music_.

“Fuck me,” Eponine moans through gritted teeth, and Cosette doesn’t even have to make her say, “ _Please_.”

One finger, then two, and at three Cosette feels Eponine tighten around her thrusting digits, and this time she comes with a scream. Cosette feels like a goddess as she drags her tongue slowly against Eponine over and _over_ again and lets Eponine fuck herself against her fingers, because Eponine is her little _slut,_ after all.

She twists her fingers, then, finds that exact _spot_ that Eponine had shown her, weeks ago, and Eponine takes her by the hair and pulls her face against her and if Cosette isn’t turned on enough the taste of Eponine would fucking do it--

“Would Marius fuck you like _this_?” Cosette asks. “Come for _me_ , slut.”

And Eponine _does_.

A high-pitched keening is ripped from her, and the movement of her leg against Cosette’s crotch--when did she even start doing that, and Cosette rubbing against it--it slows and finally stops, and she’s not writhing or gasping any more. Cosette stops, too, and looks up into her face. Eponine wears a soft, languid smile, her doe eyes half-closed beneath a fan of dark eyelashes.

“Well, I’m _done_ ,” she sighs, and starts to giggle.

Cosette scrambles up to a kneeling position. “I’m _not_ ,” she says, and she already has her jeans half-unbuttoned.

Eponine helps her come undone the rest of the way.

 


End file.
